"I don't think I should drive anymore!"

We hope this book will provide some help and support to stroke patients, their family and friends and offer some comfort that a recovery - even from the most bleak of situations - remains a possibility. Stay Positive. 

We are supporting the Cavernoma Alliance UK with contributions from sales toward their further research. Information about cavernoma can be found at www.cavernoma.org.uk

Here is how it all began:

Sunday 25th July 2021

“I don’t think I should drive anymore” was the final straw. It was lunchtime, we’d just been shopping at Tesco’s and we were sat on the settee at home, Diane staring through me at the wall. ‘OK’ I said.’ That’s it. We need to get you looked at’.

For the last few weeks I had been increasingly concerned at odd things Diane had been doing or saying. Nothing really obvious, but quirky bits and pieces that were out of character. Staring into space; giggling at random times and repetition of comments. After nearly 36 years of married life one does pick up on these subtle changes in the norm. At least this time I didn’t appear to be the focus of approbation. I had suggested contacting the Doctor and, as usual, been shot down in flames for my troubles.

A key moment had been the evening of the Wednesday before. I’d returned from Lifeboat training to find Diane and a friend enjoying a bottle of wine. Nothing remarkable about that. It was the look that her friend gave me as I came through the door that troubled me. A sort of wry but quizzical smile that said, what the hell is Diane on?

Later I was informed that she’d asked Diane if she’d been drinking before they met that evening, given her rather giddy and outlandish behaviour. For a generally sober woman with a low interest in alcohol this was definitely out of character.

As I looked harder at Diane sat on the settee. I could see the corner of her mouth was a little drooped. The right side of her face beginning to sag. The alarm bells started going off all over the place, but I didn’t want to frighten her, so I suggested a quick trip to the drop-in centre for a once-over. There was no objection.

Six months into the second round of COVID we were old hands at keeping ourselves to ourselves. We’d been double jabbed and apart from shopping trips and our daily constitutional along the prom we mostly stayed at home. There had been a series of upsetting events earlier in the year which had put Diane in a very stressed condition, but things had been looking up. She’d only recently been out for a spa day and afternoon tea with her friend of nearly 60 years and the photos showed her to be enjoying life. Maybe all the upset had finally caught up with her.

Masked up and sanitised we presented ourselves in the drop-in queue. It was busy. A nurse was triaging potential patients in the corridor. Weeding out the time wasters mostly. I stood slightly behind Diane and motioned to the nurse over her shoulder by pulling on the corner of my mouth.

She took one look at Diane and suggested we went straight to A&E. No messing. Being only 5 minutes away from the hospital there was no need to waste time waiting for an ambulance to arrive. I did my best ‘calm and collected’ act, trying not to appear worried. Diane was calm and evidently felt the need for assistance. Just to add a little frisson to my already building angst, the hospital car park ticket machine was - naturally enough - out of order. Bollocks to it! I wasn’t wasting any time trying to find another parking place. My wife needed urgent attention. I’d just pay the fine if I had to. We walked calmly toward the A&E entrance.

Masked up and lathered in disinfectant gel again we stood in line for the receptionist. The local A&E was not a place we had frequented on a regular basis. The menu’s were limited, the ambiance over lit and once you’d placed your order it could take an age to arrive. The ‘wino’ list was, however, spectacularly diverse.

A television was showing the usual afternoon ‘Escape to…’ programmes interspersed with mindful adverts about hygiene and the various services on offer in hospital. Our last visit had been 6 years before when my gall bladder decided it no longer wished to be a part of our mutually existing and longstanding relationship and tried to burst out of my intestines like the alien in, well, the film ‘Alien’. That was a fun-few-days. My only previous visit was to have my tonsils out when I was four. And gall bladder ops apparently don’t require the patient to eat lots of ice cream. Shame.

We arrived at the glass partition, and I explained my concerns. The receptionist tried to engage with Diane directly – seemingly ignoring what I thought was a succinct and balanced explanation of our needs. The intercom was on the blink so I may have sounded like Freddie ‘Parrot-Face’ Davis doing his dodgy microphone routine. Name, address, shoe size, bank account number, favourite colour, top ten hits from the 1970’s – all the usual questions were asked of Diane and, giving an appropriate pause to allow my wife not to answer, as she stared vaguely into the middle distance, I then filled in the blanks - again".
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